Tainted Saint

She was sure they were watching her. They had to believe her. If not, she was doomed. She wished she could hear what they were saying, but inasmuch as her hearing was slightly better than average, she could not hear through walls. The two-week battle in her mind on whether or not to come to the station had been lost.

Behind the mirror, the two detectives stood watching her, unsure of what to do. 

“Morio, is this something?”

“What?” Detective Morio turned to look at his colleague in surprise. Considering it as the truth was insane. “Come on Otieno, we’ve known Bacha for how long now?”

“Well, since I came to the precinct.”

“Correct, and since I was just a kid. We threw rocks into the river on the way home from school, ate samosas on Saturdays after football at Afraha Stadium. If anything, I know the guy.”

Detective Otieno watched her keenly through the glass. When she came in, she seemed very frightened. Her words echoed in his head. Just listen to me and if you don’t believe me, then at least I have done my part.

“I mean,” Detective Morio continued. “The guy is my friend. He makes most of my meals for heaven’s sake. In fact, I’m hungry for some chips masala.” His colleague smirked. “You know what this is? I’ll tell you.”

Detective Otieno remained silent.

“Always thought she was trouble. I just didn’t know how much. I mean, Jesus! To make such an accusation on someone who provides for you, especially when they didn’t even have to. That Bacha’s a saint, you know? She’s his father’s bastard. Showed up on his doorstep a week after the guy died, talkin’ ‘bout she just found out. And sure, I advised Bacha to take a test, with the blood thing, there’s a test for that these days. So I told him, take a test, man. But bless his heart. The guy took her in. No questions asked. Just opened the door and asked her to move in.”

“But she has the sock,” Detective Otieno said. “Surely that’s something.”

“The sock doesn’t prove anything,” his colleague retorted. “How many pairs of socks do you have?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I even wear mismatched coz I can’t find partners…”

“Exactly, my friend,” Detective Morio said. “Who knows where the sock came from. Bacha just needs to let this girl go. If she starts with this, imagine what damage she could do to him.” He placed his left hand on Otieno’s shoulder. “Let’s get her over there. Might take the chance to have some lunch.”

Detective Otieno sighed and turned to leave the room. Maybe Morio was right. With their history, Bacha and his half sister would have to solve their issues at home. He walked into the interrogation room and found her sitting just as they had left her. She looked like a statue, with her braids tied in a neat ponytail and her sunglasses placed perfectly to hide the milkyness of her eyes.

“You have to leave, miss.”

She jerked. “What?”

“Get up,” he said, handing her the cane. “We can drop you home.”

Her forehead creased into a frown. “No, wait-”

“There is no wait. You should know better than to waste policemen’s time like this. Come on,” he was helping her to her feet as she struggled.

“Please. You can’t take me back. He will be so angry. You can’t do this!”

She was screaming when Detective Morio walked in asking what was taking so long.

“Now, girl. We cannot waste time here. I am a hungry man, and the only thing that keeps me going is your brother’s plate of chips masala. If you do not walk out of here with your so-called evidence, we will have to find a crane to lift you from the premises.”

***

In the car, she sat at the center of the back seat, her cane folded on her lap. She had been so sure they would believe her, a stranger who had lived in the town for four months, over her brother who was a local. She had to leave.

“I knew your father,” she heard Detective Morio say. “Good man.” She also heard what he was not saying. That the man who had fathered her could not have had a child out of wedlock and kept it to his grave. He was a church going man. He could have made some mistakes, but he was a saint and she was the taint on his gravestone. Bacha had opened his house to her but the town was yet to give her the key. “Yes, thank you,” she said to him.

During the10-minute drive, Detective Morio gave an anecdote about a camping trip her father had taken with him and Bacha when they were ten. It involved hunting and shooting and some details she missed.

She used those 10 minutes to mentally locate all her belongings so she could pack as fast as possible and sneak out. She would not wait to fall victim.

***

At the cafe, Bacha was in the kitchen and Mrs Wanjohi was cleaning the floors, so the detectives had to wait outside. She walked in, said hello to the cleaning lady and found her way to the staircase that led to the upper floor. She had to be quick.

“Hey,” Bacha’s deep voice startled her. “Why are you tiptoeing?”

Her mind went blank. Was she tiptoeing?

Mrs Wanjohi’s ripple of laughter followed almost immediately, easing the tension she felt creeping in. “Oh I think she’s trying to show my floors a bit of respect. It’s alright love, you can walk alright. Your cane doesn’t do much damage.” She opened the door to clean outside.

“No.” Bacha’s voice boomed again. “Don’t go upstairs. I have a surprise for you.”

“Is it upstairs?” she asked.

“The surprise? Um, not exactly. I need to clean up over there before you can go in. I left quite a mess this morning.”

She stood with her right foot on the first step. Her mind raced with what to do. She needed an excuse to go upstairs. “I have to get my book.” That would do it.

“Look,” she heard a bang as Bacha threw her huge braille Sherlock Holmes copy. “I brought it down for you already. It’s on the table.”

Turning from the staircase, she tapped her cane towards the table that was closest to the kitchen entrance. When she reached it, she felt for the book, grabbed it and took a seat.

“Aren’t you going to read?”

“I’m waiting for my surprise,” she told him.

“Where were you?”

“I went for a walk.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not…”

“What are Morio and Otieno doing outside?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they want some chips masala?” She sat back in the chair. It was over. She knew that he knew. His voice was strained with a tension that thinned her blood.

“I know what you do,” she said to him in a slow, menacing tone. 

Everything was silent except for the chatter of Mrs Wanjohi and the detectives.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You murder people.”

He scoffed.

“It’s true.” She continued. “I had suspicions, until two weeks ago. Then Joni brought me home that day, and we stayed up late listening to foreign films. Well, I listened, and he described. Why hasn’t he called me back, Bacha? Why did he leave without saying goodbye? Why did I smell blood, just like I did a couple of other times, and the bleach that always followed?”

Bacha was silent. She felt his eyes on her. She could only imagine what his face looked like. Was he scared? Would he show it?

“You can’t blame me if some random guy doesn’t think you are worth a call back.”

“But that’s not it, Bacha.” she continued. “After I came from the bathroom and you told me Joni had left, I went back to my room to read. But it didn’t feel right. Then, I heard you leave the apartment and got out of my room.”

She heard him move away from the table.

“I could smell it. It was so strong, I think you messed up big time with him. There was more blood than usual.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice came from the kitchen.

“Don’t I?” she smirked. She knew he was watching her. He brought back a knife. The blade scraped the counter top as he picked it up. She had to be careful. Her back was straight, her arms cradling the Sherlock Holmes copy on the table. “I walked into the living room that day, and you know what happened, Bacha? I tripped.”

He laughed. “You trip all the time.”

“True. On couches, tables, even my own feet. But never on a body.”

Ten seconds passed in eerie silence. “When I tripped,” she added. “I felt around for what had made me fall, because there is never anything on the floor. I touched his face, Bacha. There was a sock in his mouth. It was Joni. I am sure of it. His beard…”  She felt his eyes drilling holes into her. Her body was tense. Her heartbeat quickened. Her palms started sweating around the book. She balled them into fists to stop herself from trembling. She had to show him she was not scared of him. 

“You know,” he said, finally. “Some people said I shouldn’t take you in when you showed up. They claimed you were a liar. There is no way my father would have a bastard.” He dragged that last word like a nail in wood. “They all said,” he continued, “that you were just a dirty little leech here to take my money. You were just looking for a handout. How else would you conveniently show up after dad had passed? They say things about you, but I never listen.”

“I know…” she began.

“No! You don’t get to talk.” He banged a fist on the table, startling her. Mrs Wanjohi peered through the door and asked in her singsong voice if everything was okay. “Yes, of course.” Bacha replied, his voice back to its sweet harmless tone. She closed the door to finish with her cleaning. “You make accusations,” he continued, his voice low, menacing. “You accuse me of these vile things, like… an animal. I have been nothing but good to you. But you don’t know just how bad I can be.”

She was trembling to her bones. Tears stung her eyes as her chest constricted in panic.

“Stand up.”

“What?” her trembling voice asked, even as she picked up her cane, unfolded it and got up from the chair. “What are you going to do?”

“Let’s take a walk. We’re going upstairs.”

“Please. I’m sorry”

“Move, or I will use this.” The cold blade touched the small of her back. She felt the tip cut through her skin.

“Bacha, please,” she begged. The pressure of the knife on her back forced her to move forward. Blood trickled down to the waistband of her jeans. “I’m sorry.” She took the stairs slowly, trying to listen for the detectives. If they could walk in.

“No apologies,” he whispered.

As she opened the door, the smell of copper filled her nostrils. “Bacha,” his name escaped her lips.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get some bleach later.”

***

When Mrs Wanjohi finished cleaning, she returned to find no one in the cafe. The chips masala order was almost done. She prepped it and served them on the outside verandah.

Bacha came downstairs after the detectives were almost done with their meal. 

“Where’s the girl? She promised to read to me some more adventures of Mr Watson.”

“Sleeping,” he replied. “Headache.”

“Oh, poor thing. I’ll make her some soup.”

“No, I will,” Bacha said. “Oh, and Mrs Wanjohi, please get some bleach when you go to the grocery store. We’re out upstairs.”

She made a note in her book as entry number 12. Bleach.